“We played in Albany last night and were making the drive to Montreal when the bus broke down.”
“Oh, that sucks.”
“We were supposed to have Sunday and Monday off to enjoy Montreal, but now I don’t know what the hell’s gonna happen. I was really looking forward to sleeping in a bed instead of my bunk on the bus.”
“You don’t know how you’re getting to Montreal?”
“When the bus broke down, Bart called dispatch and they said because of the storm they wouldn’t be able to get anyone out there before Sunday afternoon. We tried to get an Uber, but since we couldn’t find any, we hoofed it here.”
“There are plenty of hotels in Glens Falls,” I say, watching as he matches me roll-for-roll of silverware.
“Assuming we can get there,” he says.
“I’d offer to drive you, but my car’s not big enough for all of you.”
“What do you drive?” He asks.
“A ’69 Mustang.”
“If there wasn’t a fucking hurricane going on outside, I’d ask to go see it,” he says.
“If you’re still here when the rain lets up, I’ll be happy to show her to you.” I pause. “It’s my mom’s car, but she doesn’t drive anymore.”
“How come?” he asks curiously.
I hesitate. I hate talking about my mom’s health situation because it’s so depressing. But it would be rude not to answer. “She has early onset Alzheimer’s.”
His face softens. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I have a friend back home going through this with his grandma, and it’s a tough disease.”
I nod. “Where’s home?”
“A suburb of Minneapolis.”
“My college roommate was from St. Paul,” I say, glad to talk about something other than my mom.
“Where’d you go to college?”
“Syracuse. I majored in photography, but that dream fell apart when my mom got sick.”
“Did you graduate?” he asks.
“Yes, but when I got home that summer Mom got her diagnosis and there was just no way I could leave her.” I lift my shoulders. “Aren’t you glad you asked?”
“Hey.” He puts a big warm hand over mine, squeezing gently. “There’s no shame in putting aside your dreams to take care of someone you love. I worked a lot of shitty jobs to pay the bills until we got this record deal.”
As I look into his eyes, I can’t remember the last time it was so easy to talk to someone.
“It’s been tough,” I admit. “But generally speaking, this isn’t a shitty job. The owner, Dolly, pays us well and tips are usually good. I also bake pies that she sells here, so I make extra money that way too.”
He arches a brow. “Wait—there’s pie?”
I laugh. “Well, not anymore. We’re sold out.”
“That’s not fair.”
“If you’re still in town later today. I’ll bake some fresh ones this afternoon and you’re welcome to a piece on the house.”
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere any time soon,” he says, looking out at the storm.
